


Springtime In My Heart

by goatsongs



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Aphrodite gives Zolf a gift, But he still needs it, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, I've been told that this fic is reminiscent of Oscar Wilde's 1997 biopic so take that as you will, Love, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Sort Of, Wilde has short hair, Zolf is tired of divine gifts, and that's why there's absolutely no fucking dialogue, reflections on life, this fic is so self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24251065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatsongs/pseuds/goatsongs
Summary: Zolf needs no god or divine intervention. But sometimes help from above comes anyway.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Springtime In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Once again I'd like to thank Oscar for being an absolute wonder and managing to not murder me despite me throwing fics to beta at her constantly. Find her at [oscarlovesthesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscarlovesthesea/pseuds/oscarlovesthesea) on ao3 and pretty much every other social media I think. 
> 
> I'm Enea, find me at [@jimmymagma](https://twitter.com/jimmymagma) on twitter, or around the RQ fandom/community. I lurk a lot and I'm always up for a nice chat. 
> 
> Drop a comment if you like it!

Three months after saving the world, Zolf finds himself returning to his hometown, via the long route, by sea. He doesn't quite know why, perhaps to pick up the pieces he hadn’t had time to pick up the first time around, when he discovered the hidden history of where his father’s loyalties lay, back when the meritocracy still had meaning in a world not cracked in half by danger and disease. He has been through a lot in life, seemingly never taking the time to stop and reflect, sometimes by choice, and lately because he had no other options.  
He isn’t old, but he’s seen a lot, he’s grown a lot and he knows that returning won’t help him find whatever is missing. He even knows that nothing is really missing, that finding that something is not really that important because whatever you have and wherever you are, you will always find yourself wishing for something more. Something, perhaps, that has already happened, the nostalgic reminiscence of times gone by. No, he isn’t looking for anything special that will fix all of his problems. But something isn’t right, and hasn’t been since the moment he has allowed himself to breathe and believe that the threat he has been fighting for more than two years now has finally gone.

Maybe it’s just all that he has seen, maybe it’s simply the grief that has broken him apart, the frustration of not responding and not praying to a god he’s wasted so much time trying to please, the crushing guilt of all that he has done, all the suffering he’s caused, all the times he has turned on his own decisions, backtracked and changed his mind, every time he’s grown out of something he believed in. Every time he has been let down, he’s hoped endlessly and never got anything in return.  
All of this is heavy enough on his shoulders to make his nights sleepless, or filled with nightmares. And it was almost always something that had really happened to him. But on the sea, no nightmares reach him, his nights are short and blank. During his time awake he looks at the sky and reminisces all the times he’s been proud, every time he has felt truly happy amongst the rubble of the life he’d built before the break. And the memories come in flashes, hugging Hamid, watching Sasha smile, cooking, watching Wilde, Barnes and Carter eat his food with enthusiasm. And sometimes he thinks back to his battles, the thrilling feeling of achievement, of strength, of healing without praying to a God, the feeling of lightning surging through him with an earth shaking power.  
Alone in the sea, he returns to the place he’d spent a grey childhood in, and the air is crisp and cold, and the sound of the soft waves splashing against the sides of the boat lulls him to sleep.

When he wakes up again, he is no longer at sea. He is in a wood, the midday sun filtering softly through the leaves, the warmth of the day filling his lungs and his chest and colouring the insides of his body with a peculiar rush. In front of him, a brick archway, overgrown with roses and climbing vines, and a green metal gate made of swirling patterns. The paint is worn, but there is no rust nor chips. There is a wooden sign on the gate. In swirling golden letters it reads _“Garden of Aphrodite. Step into your heart and its gentlest dwellings”_. If Zolf could choose, he wouldn’t enter the garden. But everything feels hazy in the sun, and the warmth coming from inside is pleasant and tempting. He opens the gate with a slow tinkling sound, and steps in.  
The change is not sudden, but it’s noticeable, like a melody growing louder the more he spends within the confines of the brick walls encircling the garden. He can hear the soft crunch of the soil beneath his feet as he walks, and can hear the muffled sound of birds singing as if from outside a window. He begins to smell the warm scent of bread just out of an oven, making his mouth water and the corners of his mouth lift in excitement. But he sees none of it. All he sees is a small garden, low trees growing to the sides of a winding path, flowers colouring every corner and lining the edge of the clearing he arrives on, three wooden benches placed around the circle. Zolf continues walking toward the brightness at the end of his vision, and suddenly realises he’s in a dream.

As he walks round a towering bush to the side of the first clearing, and enters the second right behind it, he suddenly becomes aware of his body. His legs are still metal, but silent, and nothing hurts, his shoulders are relaxed, and his smile comes easy.  
The second clearing, where the sunlight filters through in strong rays, there is only one bench, facing away from Zolf. On the bench is sat the familiar silhouette of Oscar Wilde. He’s wearing a soft white shirt that seems to glow in the light, and his hair is cropped short, and with it his usual solemnity is lost.  
Zolf walks up to him and looks at his face, expecting for Wilde to respond to his presence. Smile, perhaps.  
Wilde does not react, but he is already smiling, the slight lopsided hitch of his lips to the side where the scar doesn’t mark his face. He is looking down at a flower, held in his hand delicately. He looks so much younger than how Zolf remembers him from the last time he’d seen him almost two months prior. His cheeks are pink, and his eyes are bright.

Zolf tries to speak the man’s name, but no sound comes out. Wilde has lifted the yellow flower to his nose, breathing in its scent, and he has closed his eyes.  
Desperate to connect, Zolf extends his hand to touch Wilde on the shoulder, but cannot reach him as the air starts to feel heavy around him. Even his groans of frustration are swallowed by the golden lights and the hum of the birds grow louder until Zolf has to cover his ears. The moment he closes his eyes, the warmth is gone, and the light grows dim. When he opens his eyes again he is resting on a small mattress, and the smell of salt in the wind is strong. He is back on his boat. As he brings his hands to his eyes, he notices with surprise that they are wet with tears.

***

_Find me in Bletchley, by the Severn Bridge.  
\- Zolf_

***

It takes him days to arrive to shore, and he makes his way to the Severn Bridge on foot. As he gets closer, heart in his throat, he notices the dream silhouette of Wilde, his hair cropped short, and his long coat billowing in the wind at the top of the bridge. When Wilde notices him, his smile grows and his cheeks colour in the damp grey weather, and there is no golden sunlight, no gentle warmth, no sound of birds or smell of fresh bread. Smiling comes harder to him, his muscles are stiff and his bones ache. But Zolf smiles, and when they embrace, their laughter mixes in with the rush of the river below.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a De Profundis quote that Oscar threw at me this morning: 
> 
> _"Then I must learn how to be happy. Once I knew it, or thought I knew it, by instinct. It was always springtime once in my heart."_
> 
> Another quote that pretty much broke my heart in half:
> 
> _"I don’t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But to have continued the same life would have been wrong because it would have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the garden had its secrets for me also."_
> 
> I am also collating a [Zolf/Wilde playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7kRocgbNyhU0mEHrpzwXml?si=fwCDHbtfQo-KV-rgtj6OUg). It currently contains only one song, but I don't care. 
> 
> Bye for now <3


End file.
